


Voyage

by doublelead



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Childhood, Fishing, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 09:05:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublelead/pseuds/doublelead
Summary: “You’re in my spot.” Gladiolus doesn’t really mean it, Noctis thinks. No bite to his voice, soft in the way he leans his head in, knocking their shoulders together.“I wouldn’t be in your spot if you stopped stealing my catches.” Noctis plays at shoving him, elbows him in the arm.“Can’t steal what you’re not getting.”





	Voyage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taketheblanket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taketheblanket/gifts).



> the birthday present for [taketheblanket](http://archiveofourown.org/users/taketheblanket/pseuds/taketheblanket) that got a little out of hand.
> 
> also, the amount of fishing-related references i pulled out for this did not justify the non-fishing this fic ended up being lmao

_20._

 

This isn’t his first time to the literature department of their university. The murmurs and hushed whispers from the other students died down over the months, replaced by friendly smiles, quick waves as he runs past, good-natured laughs when they ask, “Looking for the Amicitia kid again, Highness?”

“I think his class just finished!” someone yells from behind him. “Take a left turn at the second building from the courtyard, he should be out of the gate by now!”

Lugging around a fishing pole over his shoulder throws him off balance, he skids across the concrete road as he turns, sending a bunch students scattering with how he nearly smacks the length of the rod against them.

Storing it in his armiger should’ve been a much smarter decision. He could easily summon it when he needs it later, but where the fun in that, really. Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prince of Lucis and heir to the throne randomly turning up in a section of the campus in the opposite end from where his own classes are held is surprisingly a very effective ice breaker.

He sees Gladiolus a little ways in front of him, a hardbound book held on his shoulder, by his head. It’s easy to spot him – broad shoulders, black leather jacket, his height towering over his classmates next to him. Noctis sets the bottom of his fishing pole to the ground, feels it wobble as he thinks: calculating the distance between them, considers the length of the rod, standing nearly a little over twice his height and if it will reach.

There’s no one right behind Gladiolus, thankfully. A clear, clean shot. No obstructions.

He flicks his wrists and brings the fishing pole in to position, perfectly parallel to the ground. A gentle forward push, he stands on his toes. The tip of the rod lands on the small of Gladiolus’ back, nudging him, just barely, through the material of his jacket.

Noctis’ grin is wide, all teeth and cheeky, when Gladiolus turns. “Fancy one last home turf fishing trip before we leave, big guy?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re in my spot.” Gladiolus doesn’t really mean it, Noctis thinks. No bite to his voice, soft in the way he leans his head in, knocking their shoulders together.

“I wouldn’t be in your spot if you stopped stealing my catches.” Noctis plays at shoving him, elbows him in the arm.

“Can’t steal what you’re not getting.”

It’s quiet, by the lake in front of the fishing rental shop where Noctis works. He’s still in his apron, forgot to take it off to hang on the rack in the back room before locking up. He thinks he might as well take it home to wash. There’s a first time for everything, as Ignis says. It’s a good time as any to learn how to work the washing machine.

Or, well, leave it in the pile with the rest of his clothes for Ignis to clean. Whichever comes first. He’s actually not that picky.

“Aren’t you the one who’s against bait fishing?”

Summer had just started, but the days are getting longer. Noctis could see the darkened spots, stray water drops on the hem of his apron, dotting both his and Gladiolus’ trousers rolled to their knees. The sun hangs low, deep orange colouring the lake, seeping into the wooden docks.

“We’re taking it easy today. You need to relax more.” Noctis says, his tone light. He watches the way the water sluices around his ankles, ripples pushing and pulling the tackle float. His toe breaks the surface as he starts swinging his legs, splashing little tides into the water. “Take some time off. Stop getting pissed with the glaives and taunting them to arm wrestle you.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you. You need to relax _less._ ” Gladiolus laughs as he turns his reel. He wrinkles his nose at the bait, hooked and still whole. “We might have fished this place dry.”

Noctis frowns as he follows, raising his pole as he reels in the line. He leans back a bit, turns to look at Gladiolus. “We’re setting out soon, right? New sights to see, new waters, more fishes.” His voice comes out softer than he had intended it to be, quiet murmurs nearly lost to the white noise, the occasional crowd trickling out into walkway behind them, street lamps flickering on.

He wasn’t prepared for this. A branch in their conversation. One little slip, setting course to one he didn’t mean to tread, skittering the thin line between feigned excitement and honest uncertainty.

At least that way, he hopes, Gladiolus couldn’t hear the not-quite-there crack swallowing the last syllable. He can’t tell, not from the way he couldn’t really see his face, eyes locked straight in front and not towards him.

Gladiolus takes a few beat, quiet in the air between them before he answers, “That’s not why we’re going, though.”

 

* * *

 

 

_18._

 

“Aren’t you going to tell him any time soon?” Gladiolus says, looking at Prompto as he hands Noctis his lunch.

The moment he tells them that Ignis made them sausage gratin, Prompto hurriedly swipes his lunch from Gladiolus’ hands and shifts away from him. He wrinkles his nose, careful to keep the three feet distance, along with Noctis as a buffer between them as he eyes him up and down. His gaze stops, somewhere that is most definitely the general area of Gladiolus’ crotch, then he squints at his handkerchief-covered bento. Lifting the box above head level, he inspects he box with pure distrust.

“Nah.” Noctis bounces his own bento box on his palms, finds the utmost interest in the knot of his cartoon fish-patterned handkerchief.

“Goddamn shitty high schoolers.” Gladiolus rolls his eyes as he pulls on his helmet. He kicks the kickstand, hides a string of mutters behind the roar of his bike engine turning on. “I’d leave you to starve if Ignis wouldn’t skin me for it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Noctis brings the sides of his forefingers together in front of his face. He challenges Gladiolus through a look, eyes sharp and brows furrowed.

“Tell me when to stop,” he says.

Slowly he moves them apart, fingers framing the side of his face, held together at shoulder’s length.

“Alright, stop,” Gladiolus replies, smirking as he leans back against his bike.

Noctis raises both his eyebrows. “You’re joking. They don’t come bigger than twenty centimetres.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Prompto groans, trying to somehow hold his bentou between his elbows while clamping his palms over his ears. “I don’t want to hear about this right before lunch.”

“What?” Both Gladiolus and Noctis say in unison. They exchange confused looks, then turn to Prompto again.

Prompto drops his lunch to the ground. He had the decency at least, to look heartbroken for the few milliseconds before he looks back up at them. “What?” he says, like he’s the only one between them who possesses even an ounce of propriety and common sense.

 

* * *

 

 

Iris finds Noctis and her brother out of breath, sprawled on the training hall floor still half-heartedly trying to poke each other with their swords. Hiding a laugh behind a hand, she sits down a few steps away from them, setting her archery bow and arrow tube over her lap, hiding the hem of her school skirt.

“I thought I’d bring you guys this since Gladdy forgot to take them out of the mailbox this morning, but,” she rummages through her bag, feels for the plastic feel of shrink wrap hidden between he school books. “Oh– there it is.”

The magazine might as well be panacea for them – Noctis going as far as warping clear over her head to where she holds it up high, barrel rolling his landing at the other side of the room, and then running back to where Gladiolus is now sitting upright. Iris doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the chill of a warp strike so close to her. Her smile falters as she slowly brings her hand down, quivering all the way. She could still feel the ghost of a gust of wind in her hair.

“Is Lure Salt really that interesting?” They don’t pay attention to how there’s a hitch in her voice, too busy flipping through the pages.

“It’s the most comprehensive compilation for the latest fishing info!” Noctis says easily, not quite at her.

“Newly released gear and the tech behind them, legendary fish sightings…” Gladiolus isn’t any better, either.

Iris feels like she should leave, before the floodgates open they inevitably veer into an age-old argument about reel models.

 

* * *

 

 

_16._

 

Hungover on ginger ale and cold medicine, Noctis spends the afternoon of his birthday trying not to spread his gross germs to Ignis, who dutifully, ever stoically, decorates his kitchen with atmospherically inappropriate rainbow streamers, glittering letters stretching between two cupboards spelling _‘Happy 1_ _6_ _th_ _Noctis!’_

Not that it matters, Noctis thinks. Ignis is physically incapable of falling sick.

Ignis steps down from standing on a stepladder, doesn’t say anything as he walks past him, brisk and purposeful even while dropping a party hat on top of Noctis’ head on his way to the other side of the room. Its cheerful colours mocks Noctis’ very existence as he coughs into his mask.

Feeling like an absolute sad sack of a human being, he moans pitifully against the kitchen bar table, relishing the lovingly cold caress of the granite surface on his cheek. He nearly misses the click of his front door opening, the shuffle of Gladiolus’ footsteps as he takes off his shoes.

“Hanging on there, Highness?” Gladiolus brushes back his fringe, fingers tangling in the sweaty mess of his hair. “I’m sorry we had to cancel our fishing trip today.”

He groans in lieu of a reply. One face turn away from coughing right in his shield’s face. His counter has got to be some sort of a bio-hazard by now.

“But, hey, I dropped by the shop before I came over. Old man Braemar handed me your present.” Noctis knows for certain, that at least he won’t ruin it. As far as he’s concerned, he’s down for the count and _would not move_ from his position for the foreseeable future, so the small box Gladiolus placed under the party hat is safe from the dangers of falling off his head. His kitchen, now, he’s not so sure will survive. He’s wholly convinced that he needs to burn it down tomorrow, kill all the germs before they could infect half the population of his neighbourhood.

“He also told me to pass on this card everyone signed,” Gladiolus continues, sets down a piece of paper next to him where Noctis couldn’t see. “I’m glad you’re actually socialising but it says something about your age when all your friends are fishing grandpas.”

“Shut up,” Noctis manages to croak out. That’s it. That’s all of his strength for the night. He’s out of commission and now Prompto has to blow out his candles in his stead. “You’re older than me.”

Gladiolus laughs, ignores him as he strides over to where Ignis is starting on mixing the fruit punch. “Hey,” Noctis hears him say. A tone he knows that will get him in trouble for whatever he’ll say after. “I heard Jägerboms are good cold medicine.”

_Ah, there it is._

He hopes Prompto knows that Noctis wishes for the sweet release death. Pulling him out of his cold-induced misery aside, he’s fairly sure that he’ll have a friend in hell from the way he hears the metallic sound of his cutlery – like a sword drawn from its sheathe, followed by the tiny squeak torn from the back of Gladiolus’ throat.

 

* * *

 

“Yo, young man!” Gladiolus says, his cheer matching overhead bell, enthusiastic ringing even as the door closes. “Working hard?”

“Stop that.” Noctis jumps a little, finding Gladiolus already leaning against the counter when he turns. He wrinkles his nose. “You sound like the grandpas that hang around here.”

Gladio laughs. “I’m a customer today, Noct. Be polite.” He rests his cheek in his hand when he settles, his lips tugged into a small, lopsided smile. “A little birdie told me that new Twin Power SW reel is coming in tomorrow. Mind if I put in an order for it?”

“Oh- _ho,”_ Noctis hums, crossing his arms. “Straying off STELLA models? Did you finally see the light?”

“It’s cute that you think literally everything else is better than a STELLA. But nah, I’m getting it as a present. You guys do gift wrapping, right?”

“High specs are a crutch.” He rummages through the counter drawer for a pen and an order receipt. “If you’re a real angler, you’d do fine even with middle-grade gear.”

“Keep telling yourself that, kid.” Gladiolus watches Noctis fill in the forms, the way he purses his lips, his hair falling onto the side of his face. He bites back a laugh, when he reaches the special requests section. “Write the card for me too?”

“You have better penmanship than I do. Might look into buying a card and writing it yourself.”

“ _Shhh._ ” Noctis never really realises, how much Gladiolus enjoys using his ambidexterity to his advantage, sliding out a greeting card from the pockets by the register with one hand while shushing him with another, pressing his forefinger to his lips. “Write down what I say, yeah?”

Noctis takes the card from where Gladiolus slides it between them, twirls his pen into position. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lacing his fingers behinds his back, Gladiolus breathes. There’s no way he’s going to actually finish his message. He resigns himself to the inevitable aftermath – he’ll surely hear about it even when he arrives home later, maybe even all through dinner, through messenger or even a recorded voice file, after dropping the prince off at his apartment.

He smiles, just a little, watching the way Noctis tilts his head, waiting for him.

A deep inhale fills the room.

“To Noct–”

He doesn’t think it could’ve gone any other way – cut off by the card crumpled up and thrown at his head, rolling down one shoulder and onto the floor.

Noctis screams at him.

He kind of, sort of, half-expected that, too.

“How are you–” His face is red, to the tip of his ears, pen still in his hand even when he’s trying to hide his face. Dotted black lines inking his cheek, his temple, disappears under his hairline. His fists trembles with the restraint of not punching a customer. “How is this _fair?!”_

At the wolf-whistle that follows after, Gladiolus looks back, finds old man Braemar in the cafe part of the shop by the door, sipping his coffee with a knowing look. He chuckles and shakes his head, spares a short glance to the wad of paper by his shoes before turning back to Noctis again.

“I’m not paying for that card, just so you know.”

 

* * *

 

 

_15._

 

They don’t go out to the small stripe of sea down south.

Gladiolus never wants to see Noctis’ back, shoulders tense and the lines of his jaw set, his school shoes digging into the sand. He doesn’t look at him, silent – thoughtful, almost – under the prismatic light reflecting off the Wall.

It hurts, that Noctis wouldn’t let him see how much he’s breaking, eyes downcast and away from his for the rest of the day. A burden with a weight he wouldn’t share, his face eerily unreadable, composed in a way Gladiolus had always hoped Noctis would never had to bear.

The engine of his scooter is too loud, the only thing he hears on their way home.

 

* * *

 

 

_14._

 

Gravel digs into their back, over the tarpaulin they’ve laid over the ground. Noctis’ concept of happiness is a basket of strawberry sandwiches within arm’s reach, the summer sky through the gaps between his fingers, sunlight streaming through the shadows.

The low thrum of cicadas buzzing settles them down, lulls them into winding down just as the day peaks. Gladiolus sleeps next to him in a puddle of sunlight, misses when he tries to swat away Noctis pinching his nose. He allows himself a small laugh, looks up to the wind fluttering the hem of their shirts and trousers into view, set over the clothes line like curtains above their heads, a game of hide-and-seek under the shade.

Gladiolus at seventeen years old is pushing one-ninety centimetres of bad ideas, a portable laundry rack folded and stacked like aluminium wings above the cooler strapped to the back of his newly-acquired second-hand vintage vespa, pebbles thrown at Noctis’ window at three in the morning.

There was a picnic basket in the front carrier. He will never understand how Gladiolus could get away with sticking both of their two-Noctises tall fishing rods to the side of his scooter and have Ignis’ packed lunch of approval. For all he knows it could be its slightly less accepting cousin, the packed lunch of begrudging compliance, but that’s already a small miracle in itself.

He starts to drift off, somewhere between turning to see the way Gladiolus’ now half-dry hair start to curl up and watching a carbuncle shaped cloud float by. Neither of them had been good at keeping awake after a good meal. Ignis had long given up and started allowing time for ten minute naps after lunch in Noctis’ schedules.

The photo of the carbuncle cloud he sends to Ignis most probably ended up a blurred mess. Noctis doesn’t think to snap another shot before he falls asleep, to the gentle ebb and flow of the lake’s edge around his ankles.

 

* * *

 

 

The sunrise is different, he thinks, as glimpses in-between trees moving past. He thinks he might prefer this, to the one he sees from his balcony back home. Pink backscatter through bleary blinks, chromatic aberration where the sky starts, faint outlines along Gladiolus’ shirt from where he peeks over the warmth of his back.

It makes him feel small, to have the wide, wide expanse of his kingdom stretch out from under his feet. Isolation in the shadows of the citadel towering over him, a shower of light tracing winding roads and rooftops, a clear line that never touch his toes.

 

* * *

 

 

_12._

 

Gladiolus hears the click of Noctis lifting his bail from somewhere behind him. He thinks nothing of it, watches the ripples around his tackle float in the water below him. The cooler next to him is empty. He can’t imagine even one fish ending up in there before the day ends.

“One,” Noctis whispers.

Gladiolus looks back, sees him pushing down on the line right above the reel.

“Two.” Noctis adjusts his handle on the end of the grip, raises his rod straight up.

“ _Three.”_ He swings, and the line stretches forward, descends in an arc until Gladiolus hears the tell-tale clunk of Noctis’ practice lure hitting the inside of the pail set in the gravel a few metres away from them.

Noctis turns around, to Gladiolus wolf-whistling. “Since when did you get so good?” It’s not sarcasm. He’s genuinely impressed, despite how Noctis probably doesn’t believe him.

“Since when did you get so _bad?”_ Noctis wrinkles his nose, at the way Gladiolus sits crossed-legged on the dock, his line pulled straight down and lifeless. “I won’t tolerate bait fishing in _my_ royal retinue.”

“See, sonny. Time has passed for this old man. I’m just not what I used to be.” He makes a show of putting his hand over his own back, tries but fails to pop his joint for extra show points. “Sometimes I just want to sit, let the fish come to me at their leisure, and let the new generation do all the serious angling.”

Noctis clicks his tongue, walks the six-step distance to stand next to Gladiolus with a hand of his hip. He’s taller, this way – a rare chance to look down at him – and Gladiolus has to crane his head up to see him smirk. “Just watch then, grandpa. Let me show you what a real angler could do.”

His lure flies, out into the lake and across the waters, landing perfectly in front of a fish under the surface.

 

* * *

 

He’s immediately drawn to the black fishing pole, third from the left in the second rack by the window. Love at first sight, perhaps, and he only falls harder at how light it feels in his hands.

“Ohhh! You have a good eye. Not a bad choice at all for a beginner.” Old man Braemar says from where he’s manning the shop behind the register. “The Lunamis S900ML is primarily made for catching bass!”

“I like bass!” Noctis says, still marvelling over the sleek coating. He thinks he might even have started blushing. Gladiolus would never let him live it down, already sees the older boy’s phone camera out and poised to take an embarrassing photo of him.

“The thing about that rod is that for a middle-grade rod, it performs exactly the same way as top-grade one. Hold it in position and have you friend bend the edge down towards the ground.”

If Noctis was excited before, his eyes are positively sparkling now. The flexibility and rigidity of it is leagues above the rental ones they’ve been using by leaps and bounds. His first crush might very well be a fishing pole and yet, he has zero qualms in admitting that.

“I’ll take it!” he yells back towards Braemar, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s vibrating. The rod reaches the ceiling when Gladiolus releases it, he feels it wobble as he grabs it tighter to his chest.

They paired the rod with the EXCENCE CI4 reel in the end. Noctis’ first fishing pole is built primarily for bass catching, so he calls Ignis, the moment he walks out of the store. He tells him – or tries too, buried under failed attempts to stop himself from outright screeching – to ask the kitchen staff to find fifty more ways to cook it because he swears that starting tomorrow, he’ll be bringing a cooler full of them everyday.

 

* * *

 

 

_8._

 

Even with Gladiolus supporting him, lending his strength in hands gripped tight around his while he raises the pole upwards, knocking Noctis back against his chest, fighting the sheer force of the fish thrashing and pulling, they couldn’t catch it.

The line breaks, and Noctis feels the surge of frustration swallowing him in tides.

He finds that he wants to try again.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not going to swim?”

“I don’t like getting wet.”

Noctis picks at the gravel between his toes, flicks it out into the lake.

“Oh, hmm,” Gladiolus sounds slightly dejected, wet footsteps moving further away from him, up to where their fathers parked the car.

Gladiolus likes swimming. It made sense for him to not press any further. He’s used to this. Noctis thinks he’ll spend the day sitting by shoreline, watching Gladiolus do laps along the perimeter, just like every other time they’re out camping.

He startles, at the sound of the trunk of the car slamming closed, bristles at the fast patters of Gladiolus crossing the distance, his shadow stretching over Noctis’ hunched figure from where he had stopped right behind him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he expects him to push him out into the lake, counts to three in anticipation, dreading the cold chill that never comes.

Instead, something falls with a soft thunk on to his lap. Noctis opens his eyes to see a blue fishing rod, its spool in loose tangles over his knees.

“How about we try this then?”

 

* * *

 

 

_6._

 

Noctis’ first memory of Gladiolus was of him jumping off a dock. His shadow in backlight, arms outstretched over the bright summer sky, the few milliseconds in suspension, t-shirt flaring upwards and behind him, a peek of the lines of his back as he falls. Gladiolus’ toes break the surface of the lake, diving into a spark, water bursting splashes around him.

He had to stop himself, from pushing his toes against the dock and into the water, starts counting the water-tinted stains on the wooden plank under his feet instead.

He remembers Gladiolus’ sunflower smile – bright and warm, when he resurfaces, so many forms of captivating – a phantom push between his shoulder blades, his hands itching to reach out, from where he locks them tight on top of his knees.

He swallows a breath, a whisper of a too-short gasp.

**Author's Note:**

> gladio measures height in units of noctises, pass it on


End file.
